


Darklaw's Grand Scheme

by Jubalii



Category: Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series, Layton Kyouju vs Gyakuten Saiban | Professor Layton vs. Phoenix Wright: Ace Attorney, 逆転裁判 | Gyakuten Saiban | Ace Attorney
Genre: April Fools' Day, Attempted assassination, Gen, Humor, Oneshot, Parody
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-31
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-12-30 01:25:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18305336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jubalii/pseuds/Jubalii
Summary: Happy April Fool's Day 2019!Darklaw really isn't the best at coming up with good plans to get her revenge on the Storyteller....





	Darklaw's Grand Scheme

**Author's Note:**

> Evezma… Yzma… Evyzma….

_Crash! … Slam! … Bang!_

With every resounding noise echoing from the stairwell, the lowly knight sank further into the neck of his breastplate. His grip tightened on the hilt of his sword until he was sure his knuckles were white beneath the gauntlet. His conscience insisted that he should act; after all, he was in plain hearing of the commotion, and if something terrible were to happen—how could he forgive himself for not raising a finger to stop it? And yet duty kept his iron shod feet welded to the ground: no one was allowed inside the Inquisitor’s Hall without explicit permission from… well, from the Inquisitors themselves! And since _they_ were the ones making the noise….  

 _Why me?! Why does it always happen to me?!_ he lamented, somehow managing to keep his outwardly stoic appearance. _You never hear of John or Edward having bloody feuds on their hands during **their** guard duty, but when it’s Paul’s turn? It’s always a blasted free-for-all! I’m not paid enough for this! _

_That’s it, I’m going in there to break them up!_ Gathering his courage, he puffed out his chest and took a single step towards the winding staircase that led to the Hall. In the same instant, a crash loud enough to shake the chandeliers rattled him to the bone. Trembling, he slowly took his hand off his weapon and turned to face his proper position. Staring at the sunlit entrance of the Courthouse, he took a steadying breath before collapsing against the stonework in sheer fright.  

_Or… or maybe I’ll let Sir Barnham handle it, after all._

* * *

 

“He cannot get rid of me that easily! Who does that ungrateful little _worm_ think he is?”

Darklaw lifted the wooden mallet over her head, teeth clenched and seething with rage. Contrary to the guard’s belief, she wasn’t doing battle with her fellow Inquisitor at all. Her righteous indignation was for a more suitable target, one who had no idea of the danger he faced.

Her employer—the Storyteller, Arthur Cantabella—had dared to write her off as someone easily replaced, as someone expendable! And after she had so valiantly sacrificed her childhood to help him maintain his idiotic little renaissance faire knock-off! She’d given her best years to this fool, and this was how it ended? This was how she was paid for her dutiful service? Being written off like… like… like a _scullery maid_!?

Sir Barnham sat patiently at his desk next to a large stack of rejected statues—busts of the Storyteller that, for one reason or another, had been deemed unsatisfactory for placement in the Great Archive. As she paced around the office, desperate to relieve her pent-up rage, he carefully brushed the broken shards from the corner of his desk before placing another failed bust in its place.

“Does he—a little to the left—” Barnham bumped the statue closer with the flat of his hand, making sure the Storyteller’s face was pointed in her direction, “—have any idea of who he’s dealing with?” Gritting her teeth, she swung with all her strength; the bust disintegrated into a thousand jagged shards. Barnham lifted his armor-clad arm, pieces of broken clay bouncing harmlessly off his gauntlet and away from his face.

“ _How_ could he do this to me?!” she continued, raging aloud as he calmly placed another statue onto the desk. “Why, I’ve practically run this town on my own for the last five years!” Another benevolent, smiling visage was mercilessly smashed into pieces. Constantine whined from his haven beneath his master’s desk, pawing at a shard that skittered too close.

“Aye,” Barnham finally said, flicking an oblong shard from atop his paperwork. He watched it bounce over the tile, sliding to a stop beneath the blindfolded Statue of Justice. “You think it might have turned out better.”

“Yeah, go figure.” Eve rubbed one gloved hand over her face, regarding the newest statue with a snarl before bringing the mallet down over her boss—former boss, she reminded herself with another burst of fury—with both hands. Barnham’s desk shook, creaking dangerously under the added abuse but somehow still standing once the initial collision was over. The statue flew apart impressively, one shard nearly making it to her own desk across the room.

“Well,” Barnham said thoughtfully, “’Tis better that you take your anger out on these things instead of on the real Storyteller.” He shrugged, carefully dusting off the long nose of another bust before arranging it for execution.

The mallet fell to her feet with a clatter. Darklaw’s eyes widened, gears churning in her mind as a wonderful, maniacal, absolutely _foolproof_ plan began to form.

“That’s it, Zack, that’s it!” Excited, she shoved the remaining statues from his desk; they fell to the ground with a clamor, shattering clay nearly drowning out his gasp of surprise. Taking their place on the desk, she grabbed for his breastplate. Her fingers curled between the metal grooves and his layered tunic, yanking him halfway from his chair until they were eye to eye. “I’ll get rid of the Storyteller!” Her partner’s face twisted in confusion, eyes glancing to the shards surrounding them and back as he worked through her changing mood.

“…The real Storyteller?”

“Of _course_ the real Storyteller!” She let him go abruptly, fingers lacing as he slumped back into his chair with a heavy clank. A sinister smile twisted the corners of her mouth, hands fluttering in wild gestures as she began to plot. “Don’t you see? It’s perfect! With him out of the way—and his heiress off playing pastry chef in town—I’ll take over and rule Labyrinthia! Brilliant!”

“So, how does that work with you being fired and all?” Barnham rested his elbow on the desk, chin in hand.

“The only ones who know about that are the three of us,” she cackled, holding up three triumphant fingers. “Soon to be the _two_ of us.”   

“And I’m one of those two, right?” Rolling her eyes, Darklaw hopped from his desk and brushed off the clay dust from her Court uniform. Motioning to him to follow, she turned and cracked her knuckles with a devious grin.

“To the secret lab!”

* * *

 

The drunkard slumped against the cell bars with a groan, ale spilling from his flagon. Darklaw watched in annoyance as it stained the stone grooves, the soured odor of hops lingering in the damp, stagnant air. She pocketed her sliver handbell with a huff, shaking her head at the unconscious form.

“Why do we even _have_ this tunnel?” she grumbled, sliding back into the secret passageway beneath the dungeon cells and replacing the faux panel built into the floor. Sir Barnham squinted in the lantern light, peering around at the identical network of tunnels branching out in all directions beneath the courthouse.

“You know,” he remarked, adjusting the lantern slides, “we really should start labeling some of these.” With a flick of his wrist they were both immersed in a faintly flickering twilight, the nitre-caked stone glittering with every swing. He ducked to avoid her halfhearted slap, maneuvering his bulky form until he could retrace their steps. She watched him half crouch, half crawl back down the tunnel, counting branched until he paused before one that smelled faintly of brackish water. “Here.”  

“You’d better be right,” she warned, peering over his shoulder into the gloomy recesses of the tunnel ahead. “I don’t’ want to end up in the ruins because my ‘intelligent assistant’ doesn’t know his numbers.”

“Pssh.”

* * *

 

Within the Great Witch’s guarded manor there was a laboratory, offset from the main living quarters and hidden behind an easily moved bookcase. It had once belonged to Newton Belduke, when he still resided in the manor as its sole owner. In the earliest days of Labyrinthia’s existence, he had used his beloved lab to fine tune the delicate formula so crucial to the Storyteller’s invaluable ink.

Now, beneath the high arched windows, the Leader of the Knights joined the Great Witch, both in full regalia. This forbidden meeting in itself was an act of sabotage; Sir Barnham wasn’t meant to know the secrets of the town, but what Arthur didn’t know could only hurt him more in the end. The clap of their gauntlets—gold meeting silver with an echoing clang—signaled the start of their brainstorming session.

“Ah,” the Great Witch cooed, fingertips tapping together with soft _clinks_ as she surveyed the lab bench. “How shall I do it?” Before her, a retort bubbled beneath a steady open flame. Burettes and graduated cylinders were lined along the bench, their insides filled with different viscous liquids in varying colors. Small crucibles filled with various powders were lined on a shelf; nearby, a mortar and pestle already contained a number of ground flower petals.

While not nearly as interested in the sciences as Sir Belduke, she still had enough wit to cause a great deal of damage with the potions corked in various flasks. After running her fingers lightly, reverently over a few beakers, she chose a rather demure vial full of clear, newly sieved Ink.

“I know,” she began with a soft, deadly laugh. “I’ll hypnotize him into thinking that he’s a flea—a harmless little flea. And then I’ll put him into a box, and I’ll put that box inside another box, and then I’ll mail that box to myself.” Barnham frowned, thinking of poor Lettie Mailer having to push a man-sized crate from her post office all the way to the Courthouse.

“And when it arrives—ahahaha! I’ll smash it with a hammer!” Her fist slammed onto the table, rattling the glass structures. “It’s brilliant, brilliant, brilliant, I tell you! Genius, I say!” In her excitement, the vial slipped from her fingers and smashed to the floor. Both she and Sir Barnham stared down at the slowly spreading puddle, watching it stain his boots and the hem of her elaborate gown.

Even with the visor over his eyes, it was clear that her partner’s brows were raised sardonically as he glanced up at her without a word. The Great Witch licked her lips, tongue running over the colored gloss as she tried to salvage the foiled situation.

“Or,” she began slowly, looking around at the various benches and tables lining all four walls, “to save on postage, I’ll just poison him with _this_!” Striding confidently across the lab, she opened a cluttered closet; inside were small vats, sealed with wax along their circular rims. Pulling out the nearest one, she held it with both hands.

Every time the Shades miscalculated the material dosage, the resounding ink was ruined beyond repair. The sloshing goop that was left over was absolutely useless… and most likely hazardous waste. However, the government didn’t know how to dispose of what they called “experimental serums”, and therefore every failed attempt had to be contained in the belly of the manor.

Of course, the waste could have been avoided had Arthur taken into account her suggestion: that anyone wishing to pursue a contract with Labrelum Inc. pass a series of puzzles before even being allowed to apply… but if he’d ever listened to her advice at least _once_ , they wouldn’t be down here plotting his death.

“Take it, Zack.” She handed over the vat, closing his fingers around the warm edges of the chemically heated metal. “Feel the power.”

“Oh. I can feel it.” He shook one hand and then the other, the warmth burning his fingers as it heated his gauntlets.

“Our moment of triumph approaches!” Lightning flashed in the arched windows, throwing the laboratory into flickering bursts of blinding white light. Lifting the eye insignia of her headdress, the Great Witch let out a cold laugh as she pointed dramatically to the heavens. “It’s _dinner time_!”  

* * *

 

“A goat!?!” The High Inquisitor’s limbs trembled, from either fear or anger. She stood over the unconscious goat, yanking on her hair until it came loose from the intricate braid. “He’s supposed to be _dead_!”

“Aye… ‘tis strange,” Barnham murmured, rubbing the back of his neck. He straightened up from the body, shaking his head in disappointment. Darklaw glared at him, a tic working in her jaw.

“ _Let me see that vial_ ,” she growled, yanking it from the pocket of his tunic. It looked identical to the vial of poison she’d poured from the vat, but… how could it be? Squinting at the label, she pushed up a bent corner to see that it wasn’t the same after all. Nostrils flaring, she turned on her heel with a hiss. “This isn’t poison!” She lifted the corner to show the clear silhouette of a barnyard animal. “This is extract of… _goat_!”  

“You know, in my defense your father’s potions all look alike,” Barnham pointed out with a solemn frown. Grunting in her mounting frustration, she threw the vial as hard as she could; it bounced harmlessly off his forehead. Rubbing the impact zone, he looked down at her with a wounded pout. “You might think of re-labeling some of them.”

“Ugh!” She pounded her forehead with the heels of her palms, her face working through a series of emotions that ended in wrath. “Take him out of town and finish the job, now!” she shouted, pointing at the door to the Audience Room. Barnham hesitated a moment, stomach rumbling as he looked over his shoulder to the feast he’d spent hours helping the chefs prepare.

“What about dinner?” Darklaw let out an exasperated breath through her nose, eyes narrowing dangerously.

“Zacharias, this is kind of _important_.” Wilting, he again looked longingly at the food.

“How about dessert?” One finger raised to scold, she paused and glanced at a gilded plate, piled high with fresh éclairs.

“Well… I suppose there’s time for dessert.” It would be a shame to let all the good pastries go to waste, after all. He bounced on the heels of his boots with a boyish half-grin that made her avert her eyes with a blush.

“And coffee?”

“All right, a quick cup of coffee,” she snapped, still flushed as she reached up to grab his tunic. Dragging him down by the neatly cuffed neckline, she rose onto her tiptoes in an effort to loom over him, her forehead pressed against his uncomfortably.

“ _Then take him out of town and finish the job!_ ”

**Author's Note:**

> Here's a fun PLVSAA drinking game: Watch the Emperor's New Groove, take a drink every time you can imagine Barnham and Darklaw doing something Kronk and Yzma do, and then pass out from alcohol poisoning. 
> 
> Honestly, if I could actually sit down and think up a coherent plot, this would be a full AU. Arthur deserves to become a goat.... and then be eaten by the townsfolk on the night of the Fire Festival >:) Also Darklaw and Barnham would go to the bakery and Barnham would have to play jump rope with Petal and Cecil while Darklaw tries to pull a fast one on Patty. And then there's the entire chase scene.
> 
> And why DO they have a secret passage beneath the dungeon cells? Is there any real use for it? No one ever comments on it after Luke just tunnels into Jean's cell like it's nothing....


End file.
